


White Antelope

by Spooks, thesuninside



Category: Inception (2010), Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooks/pseuds/Spooks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesuninside/pseuds/thesuninside
Summary: "You have not yet agreed nor had time to think it on over,” Boyd said, standing up and draining the rest of his drink.  “You two gentlemen have a fine evening.  I will see you tomorrow, I do hope.”Eames and Arthur watched him leave.  Once he was gone, Eames said, mildly, "Darling, that may be the most dangerous man I've ever met."***********The original conceit is that Boyd went into dreamshare instead of infantry.  Please enjoy!  The Boyd/Raylan pairing is really Boyd's subconscious pining.  Despite that, there is an element of love story between Boyd and Raylan here.  Please enjoy!





	White Antelope

A few years after telling his employers goodbye and parting amicably—because parting aggressively with such an organization meant suspicious car accidents when you were involved in Arthur’s level of work—Arthur walked into a meeting about a job.  The client was looking to find out if his older sister had forged their father’s will; the extractor was Boyd Crowder.  He looked good, like he was enjoying himself, and Arthur felt briefly sorry for the mark.

 

“Hello, Arthur,” Boyd said, standing up to shake his hand like they were old friends.  They hadn’t been unfriendly, at least.  It had been Arthur’s job to build horrifying mazes in which Boyd and his men were murdered, mutilated, and torn apart on the regular.  It had been Boyd’s job to get to the middle of the maze, find Arthur, and blow his brains out to end the dream.

 

Boyd had managed it a couple of times, even. 

 

Still, such an arrangement led to a cool relationship, to say the very least.

 

Arthur shook Boyd’s hand in return, though.  “It’s been a while,” he said.

 

“Mr. Crowder was saying you were acquainted,” the client, Jerome Washington, said, not bothering to stand up.

 

“And it has been a _while_ ,” Boyd confirmed with a sort of grin, not bothering to soften his accent in the slightest.  “Arthur’s a good choice for point.”

 

“He better be, for what I’m paying him.”

 

“I’m good enough to know that the chemist you hired is an Interpol plant,” Arthur answered.  “And to pull this off you need a forger.”  Arthur said across from Boyd, met his eyes.  Boyd’s grin remained, he shrugged. 

 

“Arthur is the best in the business,” Boyd told the spluttering client.  “You oughta drop that chemist, and get Eames.  We don’t need no fancy batch for this job; one level, standard, but none of us can impersonate your dear old dad.”

 

“I don’t know Eames,” Jerome said.

 

“I do.”  Arthur was already pulling out his phone.  He sent the text, _You’re in._

A moment later, his phone pinged.  From Eames, _Remarkably, that’s also what you said last night, pet_.

 

Arthur was going to bite Eames’ _dick_ for making Arthur blush in front of a client.

“And just like that, settled,” Boyd said, then hummed under his breath, and tilted his head to the side.  Arthur saw him tap three fingers, then two, then one—a countdown, hidden right in plain sight where he’d hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.

“I didn’t agree yet,” the client said, right on one. 

“Now surely you did, because I would surely not try to tell you yours business, and you already said you would trust me to mine.  Did you not?” 

Who was this demonstration for, Arthur had to wonder.  Was Washington being difficult, or was this a warning about a meddling client?  Or—something else?

Washington frowned, and for his part, stayed quiet for a moment.  “I did.  I said you needed to unravel the maze my sister’s laid out here.  Prove what she’s done.  You said then call you minotaur, and you’d find a Dadylus.”

 _Daedalus._   Boyd smiled.  Arthur tried not to and succeeded, but it was a near thing.  The conversation continued, settling small details, timeline and outline, all old information.

Ten minutes later, he texted Eames again: _I’m missing something._ That wasn’t what Arthur was missing.  He added: _Dinner._  Then hit send.

_Dinner._

Arthur met Eames at a restaurant they both liked.  It served Cuban food that touched on Eames' love for everything from the tropics and Arthur's nostalgia for an assignment in Miami when he was still a teenager.  Eames eschewed the manners of his people and ate with his hands, shirt sleeves rolled up to bare tattoos and hairy forearms.  Arthur flipped his own tie over his shoulder, rolled his shirtsleeves up, and tucked into his own food. 

"So how is your old army buddy?"  Eames asked between dripping bites of sandwich.  Arthur stole the pickle from his plate to add to his own pickle hoard.

"Not an army buddy.  More like we were contemporaneously in the army in the same program, and I was smart enough to challenge him.  I spent most nights coming up with creative ways to kill him, though, so it's not like we were penpals."

" _Contemporaneously_ ," Eames sighed, like he was savoring the word.  He was ridiculous, really.  "So how _is_ he?"

Arthur thought about that.  Thought about what Eames would like to know.  "He looks good," Arthur started.  "Like he's having the time of his life all the time.  I think extraction agrees with him."

"Think he's a good one?"

"I know he is.  I've heard of an extractor recently, just called the Hillbilly.  I wondered if it was him, now I'm sure."

"Good reputation, then?"

Arthur nodded.  "Clever, is the reputation."

"Well then.  Should be interesting.  I do know how you like clever people, darling."

"I'm surprised you don't remember him."

"We were rather segregated from the Americans when I was across the pond.  The chemists where the only ones we really interacted with."

"Huh," Arthur hummed, took a big thoughtful bite of his sandwich. "The thing about Boyd," Arthur finally said, delicious beef consumed.  "The thing about Boyd is that he's good at the long game."

"Why, thank you," Boyd's unmistakable drawl rose from the table behind Arthur, and Arthur _froze_.  He was conditioned to expect that voice, like that, to be followed by a bullet or a knife someplace vital; it was shocking how suddenly that conditioning rose to the surface again. 

He'd counted on Eames to watch his back.  But Eames didn't know Boyd so--Arthur made himself let go of the knife he'd grasped on the tabletop.

Eames just rolled with it.  "Well, this is awkward.  Won't you join us, Boyd?  The sandwiches are truly something."

 

“Thank you for the kind invitation,” Boyd agreed.  He almost sounded casual about it, as if this wasn’t planned.

 

Instead of turning, Arthur watched Eames, who looked alight with careful interest, but whose fingertips were, momentarily, flat against the tabletop.  Eames then pushed back a little, and slid himself along, closer to Arthur, somehow managing to mostly make it seem as if Arthur himself weren’t sitting shock still and gazing like an idiot at Eames.

 

Now they were working, and Arthur resented it.  But he did want Eames to help figure out what he was missing.

 

Boyd lifted his chair and placed it down with a quiet scuff.  He had only a drink, half empty, and he looked much the same as he had earlier that day, casual but very neat clothing.  Except--his hair had gone wilder, and his grin had sharpened. 

 

He looked between them after sitting down, then sipped his drink.

 

“Let’s review,” Arthur said.  “You wanted me to invite Eames the moment you approached me---You knew the basics of the job would work well with a forger and made a comment to get me to look into the chemist.  Now you’ve followed me here, after that song and dance with the countdown and the demonstration.” 

 

Arthur hated the duplicitous part of the job, the part that made him wonder even as he clipped out his conclusions, if they were intended to be as transparent as they now seemed.

 

Boyd laughed, low and easy.  “Guilty, but maybe not _exactly_ as charged.”

 

A waiter came by, confused for a moment, but a few seconds of hand waving and a flurry of smiles from Eames had the situation settled.  In the midst of it, Eames bumped Arthur’s ankle under the table.  It did zero, nothing, for the uneasy restlessness that had taken up residence in the base of his spine.  Arthur needed information to turn that feeling into readiness.  The gesture was nice, though.

 

Eames didn’t look like he was bothered by anything, but instead still looked flattered to be sought after.  Bastard.  But then, they were working.

 

“Our esteemed client may well be destined for an eternity of probate and a trickle of trust funds, but he may also be a means to an end for a personal matter of mine.  The problem I face is that I simply do not know the answer to that second ‘may,’ and there’s a limited way to find out.”  Boyd spread his hands, palms out.

 

“So you need what, exactly?” Eames asked, almost immediately.

 

“Well I don’t know if I will need a forger in particular, eventually, I will admit that.  But I will with certainty need sure and precise hands, ones who have been with this industry for a very long time.  Because while there’s a great deal experience _cannot_ teach, well now.”

 

There was something else hiding in those words, or was Arthur still remembering the moment before he woke up?  Dammit.

 

Eames smiled, and smiled at Arthur.  “You need Arthur, in other words.”

 

“That _is_ who I called, I would like to point out,” Boyd said.

Well, this was a turn of events. Arthur was terribly competent, but he wasn't used to being the one people _needed_ for a job.  Eames was the rockstar of mindcrime.  There was something satisfying about being the one whose presence was specifically needed.  "If you're planning to double cross the client, and letting us know about it, you need our help to pull it off."

Boyd inclined his head, slightly, and Arthur got the impression that the things Arthur knew, he knew because Boyd _wanted him to know it_. 

"What's the nature of your personal business?"  Eames asked.

"Personal," Boyd replied.  "And unrelated, in fact, to anything in our current industry.  Has to do with an old friend, long before dear old Uncle Sam got his talons in either of us.  And, as I said, he _may_ be a means to an end.  I require more information."

"And that's why you need me."  Arthur pursed his lips.  He was also hungry; he wished there was a way he could keep eating without feeling ridiculous, but.  "To find information for you."

Boyd grinned.  "And that's why you're the best in the business, darlin'.  Oh--sorry."  The apology was because Eames--well. He'd been ruffled.  It was slight, but there, and Arthur knew Boyd had done it to poke a little _fun_.  "I suppose you can blame it on my roots.  Pet names are an affectation of the hillbillies, after all, but of Southerners in general.  Congratulations are in order, I suppose?"  Boyd gestured between them with his drink.

"Thank you, Boyd," Eames silked over the awkward as he always did, though Arthur thought he was going to have competition for the most charismatic man in the room, so long as Boyd was there.  "You understand why we don't advertise."

"It's personal," Arthur interjected before Boyd could launch into a multisyllabic response.

"Hm," Boyd said, speculatively, into his drink. 

" _Anyway_.  If you want me to find information, I need to know what I'm looking for."

"For now, just know that we'll be digging into the client just as deeply as we dig into his sister."

“Digging into a client is not the same as digging into a mark,” Arthur countered, and decided _fuck it,_ and took a bite of his neglected sandwich.  Let Boyd give him a little more.  See what breadcrumb he’d give up this time.  _Food metaphors, Jesus_.  This is what they get for having an impromptu dinner meeting. 

Dessert will not be crashed.  Even if dessert is going to be three days from now on another continent.

Eames waited too, apparently happy to chew and make a contemplative noise and watch out this unfolded for the moment.  Boyd looked between them as if measuring the lay of things, then shrugged.

“I suppose it is not, but in this particular case, we have been invited to pull skeletons out of the family crypt.  And so, it’s an easy thing to lay out a string of incendiary lines of inquiry and speculation,” Boyd spaced out the word, like he was happy to let the syllables breathe.  “In the interests of caution, you do understand.”

 "Oh yes, and you already found a bad chemist, so you’ve been proved right already,” Eames asked.  “Did you arrange the hiring, or was it a lucky accident?”

 Boyd laughed.  “Do you believe in luck?”

 Eames nudged Arthur’s ankle under the table, and Arthur wished he could tell if that was a signal, if it means arranged, accident, or let’s-get-out-of-here-and-fuck.  Or just hello.  Probably the last one, if anything at all. 

 Arthur rolled his eyes.  “I need to know who the old friend is, or at least a hint, and what I’m looking for.  Needles in haystacks can only be found because they have distinguishing characteristics.”

 “Don’t I know it.  But not just here and now, and especially considering you have not yet agreed nor had time to think it on over,” Boyd said, standing up and draining the rest of his drink.  “You two gentlemen have a fine evening.  I will see you tomorrow, I do hope.”

Eames and Arthur watched him leave.  Once he was gone, Eames said, mildly, "Darling, that may be the most dangerous man I've ever met."

Much later, at their hotel, the two of them talked it over.  Arthur's professional pride and curiosity was piqued, and he had a thing for competence, which Boyd had in spades.  Eames was in it if Arthur was  Eames sent Boyd a text before they went to sleep.  _We're in, at least enough to have real talk about the job you want to hire us to do._

In the morning, there was a reply waiting, and Arthur couldn't help reading it with Boyd's accent curling through his mind.  _Thank you for the quick response.  We can properly negotiate terms face-to-face_.

The next morning, Arthur dressed for work, which meant a gun holstered at his back and his favorite leather jacket to conceal it.  Eames watched him squeeze into his jeans, which was always gratifying.  Eames' latest job had involved befriending a man who obsessed with boxing, and so Eames' physique was particularly stunning lately.  Arthur got his turn watching Eames get dressed, then they had coffee to go and headed to the loft where they'd be doing the work.

The client was not there today--just Boyd, sitting at a desk in the large central area.  There was a kitchenette to one side, a bank of windows to the other, and a PASIV on the floor near Boyd's feet.  Boyd was dressed sharp, buttoned up to his throat and down to his wrists, a sartorial choice that Arthur could respect. 

"Welcome, boys," Boyd said, gesturing expansively.  "It lacks the sterile _je ne sais quoi_ of our last dreaming together, Arthur, but I do hope it will serve."

“I’m not sure it’s in your best interest to bring up our last dreaming, Boyd,” Arthur replied, sipping his coffee and giving a slight grin, to temper the very dry words. 

“Touche, but you may remember, _you_ were the monster sitting at the center of those mazes you made, and I and mine were in the role of the conquering hero, if we survived.”  Boyd smiled.  “Or the rats, I suppose.”

 “I do remember, actually.”  Of course he did, but if they were pointing at the elephant in the room, they might as well talk about the way it seemed to have smashed through a village.

 “Mmhmm, and while you sat and waited in your private little hell wondering if I would come for you like the goddamn boogey man, you were kept from seeing exactly what your creative little nightmares did to me.”  Boyd shrugged.  “Segregation of duties, I have been told.”

 “Can’t cheat if you don’t know, basic dream sharing,” Arthur agreed.  “But that’s not what you mean.”

 It did not escape Arthur’s notice that Eames was keeping his mouth firmly shut.

 “And you cannot have sympathy for an enemy you’re only meant to kill.  Meat in a grinder’s only good for casing, lucky us out here on the other end, don’t you think?”  Boyd asked.  He went on, “Let’s talk about unlucky folks, hm?”

 He reached for the PASIV’s IV lead.

"Join me when you're ready," he said, rolling his sleeve up and settling back in his chair.  "I'll wait."

A few seconds later, Boyd was under, and Arthur rubbed at his face.  Eames said, "Bloody hell, what _did_ they have you lot doing to each other?"

"It was combat and torture survival.  They wanted to make us into super soldiers.  The skills didn't transfer reliably from subconscious experience to conscious memory."  Decision made, Arthur shrugged out of his coat.  "I'm going down," he told Eames.

Eames nodded, started rolling up his own sleeves.  "Not alone, petal."

The set-up was routine.  Easy, to lay on the floor and hook in, to let the drugs take him down, into a dream already in progress.  He was unsurprised to find himself somewhere wooded, like a scenic overlook of some large, vaguely shaped mountains.  They were soft and tree-peaked, very much the Appalachians. The valleys between the hills were unnaturally dark, shaded.  Arthur wasn't sure that was entirely on purpose. Boyd was leaning against an old truck, taking in the view. 

"It's unwise to build from memory," Boyd told them without looking.  "And so I haven't.  One wonders where the fine line truly is, between memory and architecture." 

"You wanted to talk privately," Arthur said.  "So."

"We're alone as any three men can be," Boyd looked at them finally.  He grinned.  His hair was _wild_ , standing up in unruly spikes and tufts.  "Glad you made it."

"You said we'd talk terms," Arthur reminded.  "What are you hiring us to find?"

"Right then," Boyd straightened.  "Right to business.  In some circles that would be considered rude, to not engage in small talk."

"I engage in small talk when I'm in those circles," Arthur told him, dry.

Boyd laughed, a low sort of chuckle.  "Very well then.  That's fair.  I'm going to ask your indulgence a bit longer, Arthur, Mr. Eames.  In order to understand the job, you need to understand a where I come from.  Hop in the truck, boys.  It's a ways up to the mines."

And with that he climbed in himself, US driver’s side.  Arthur looked at Eames, and decided to climb in next—center seat, still wearing his designer jeans and jacket, but didn’t bother with a seatbelt.  Eames followed him in, and slid his arm behind—Where Arthur of course still kept his gun holstered near the small of his back, even here.  Arthur leaned into him, because Boyd knew, and Arthur would prefer not to sit right in the center.  And--Why not?

 As soon as Eames settled in, Boyd started them down the moderately pockmarked road, avoiding the deepest grooves in the cracked pavement.  Some of them looked like they didn’t have a bottom, others were filled with dark dust, like the land was bleeding black.  The inside of the truck’s dash looked cracked with age, and there was a smell of gunpowder and perfume clinging to the air.  It was entirely different from the muted, anonymous _green_ outside.

 “Whose truck was this, then?” Eames asked, voice rumbling from beside Arthur’s ear.

 “Why this is almost a vehicle,” Ve- _hic_ -le, “That belonged to my Momma.  Funny thing, how we can bring back objects, but not places, and yet some objects are also places.”

 Green seemed to blur, and shift.  This was not normal.  But it wasn’t _abnormal_ yet.  No projections, either.  Not even birds.  Yet.  “Unless we’re building something for a mark.”

 “Now that is the exception.  We do all kinds of things to a mark that we wouldn’t do to ourselves.  Seems uncouth, you ask me.”  Boyd grinned, and the road turned—both left, and to dark gravel, dust flying.

 A trailer and a gathering of various junker cars and trucks, and an occasional bottom-line sports car were nestled together under the stretched bare branches of a dead tree, covered in black dust. Nothing moved except what their truck kicked up, and Boyd parked by the trailer.  “We are going in.  Either wait here, or come on, you’ll need masks, as you will not make it deep enough otherwise.  Mine safety, and unlucky bastards might not get to see the light of day, after all.” 

 “Why not?” Arthur said, and squeezed Eames’s knee. 

 Boyd waited while they climbed out, and outside, it was clear that behind the grime of the car windshields, projections were sitting, drivers, quietly watching.  They’d been easy to miss at first, because their faces were caked with some kind of dirt.  Coal, or mud, or—blood, maybe.  Arthur didn’t want to get closer and find out, and the projections seemed too aware already. 

“Bloody hell, to make a cliché, darling,” Eames whispered as they mounted the steps to the trailer.

 Boyd was jimmying the lock, apparently not being granted the key even in his own dream.  A security camera, no red light, stared at them from above the door frame.  Inside, the trailer looked more like a place paperwork went to die than an office, and was this a joke?  Or was it subconscious? 

Arthur scanned the three long lists pinned on the bulletin board by the door, knowing Eames was watching Boyd get into some nearby lockers, and knowing Boyd must know what Arthur must be reading:

 _Taken by the mountain_ – Too many names to count.  The list folded in on itself at the bottom, print becoming too small to read into infinity.

 _Dead by my father’s hand –_ The list was long, but at the top of it was “Momma.”

 _Dead by the hand of our dear Uncle Sam._ – Arthur saw the names of a few people he’d trained with in dreamshare, but not his own, not Boyd’s.  He also saw at the top of the list, circled in red: “Raylan Givens - ?”

The name meant nothing to Arthur, but then, it wouldn't, if it were from before the army days.  Arthur wondered if it was somebody from where ever Boyd got his accent.  "That's who you want us to look for," Arthur said, still looking at the list, as though clues could fall from it.  When Arthur turned, Boyd was holding three gas masks with headlamps attached.  Shit, they were going into a mine, weren't they?

"Raylan Givens," Boyd said, and it sounded almost like something he was savoring.  Arthur had never heard that tone in Boyd's voice before.  "We dug coal together, among many other things.  It isn't something I expect you to appreciate." He held out two of the gas masks.  "Yet."

Arthur had experienced awful, terrifying dreams before.  He had been stabbed with a curtain rod (Mal) and run over by a train (Mal) and drowned in a bathtub (Mal).  He had also had his throat cut (Boyd), been gut shot (Boyd), and experienced the panic of slow suffocation from a broken throat (Boyd). He had experienced pain, and horror, but he knew that it was just a dream.  If he died in a cave-in down here, he would wake up pissed off and maybe claustrophobic for a little while--but he'd be fine.  He took one of the masks, and passed the other to Eames.  
  
 "He was your friend," Eames guessed, taking the mask from Arthur's hand.  "At the very least, anyway."

"Our daddies were in business."

"The kind that leaves a trail of bodies," Eames again. 

"Well.  Not everybody's daddy can have a title," Boyd said with a smile.  Beside Arthur, Eames stiffened.  It was a measure of his shock that any of it showed at all.  His origins were a carefully hidden secret; Arthur couldn't guess what Boyd had done to research the man who might, maybe, be involved in this double-cross he was planning. 

"So you grew up in a hillbilly crimelord family," Arthur bulldozed on ahead, effectively pinning Boyd's interest on Arthur to let Eames get his demeanor right.  "Okay.  And so did Givens.  Were you, what, small time crooks together as kids?  Steal cars?"

Boyd laughed, actually threw his head back and laughed.  "Lord, no.  Raylan abhorred his daddy's business and I hid from the same.  I was more clever; Raylan took licks for his disdain.  That boy was proud."  Boyd slid the gas mask onto the top of his head.  "Let's be on our way, shall we?"

"Certainly," Eames said.  "Give us a minute, ta."

"As you wish."  Boyd gave them an amused look, and stepped out of the trailer.

Arthur looked at Eames, raised an eyebrow in question.  Eames leaned in close to his ear, and whispered, barely a breath, "Darling, they weren't just friends.  Boyd was in love with him.  Raylan was the one that got away.  And Boyd may not even _realize_ it."

That—Arthur held onto Eames by the arm, whispering close in return—“How could he not?”  This was important, massive, and may be a key to understanding how this all wrapped together.  If it could be unraveled. 

“Trust me, my darling,” Eames answered. “I could explain it, but it would take too many words, and I may not be able to satisfy your need to know it, even with it.”

“I’m satisfied,” Arthur said.  He laid a quick, hard kiss on Eames’ ridiculous mouth.  “Maybe I’ll understand later.”

Eames gave him a bright, quick smile that threatened, ridiculously, to distract Arthur from leading the way out the trailer door.  But there wasn’t time, even if he wished there could be. 

Outside, the projections had left their vehicles, and were moving towards the mine entrance in a silent, odd shuffle.  In the dimming light, Arthur could see that most of them had dark splotches on their clothing.  Some really were covered head to toe in black, and others were caked with mud, crackled and thick as they walked.  Though some were missing . . . parts. 

None of them were breathing. 

Boyd handed them masks, and looked completely unbothered by his undead horde of a subconscious.  “We will follow them in, provided you are still coming along.”

“You think that showing us digging coal, or—the experience of it—will translate to understanding your motivation?” Arthur asked, letting dubiousness tug the corners of his mouth downwards.  It wasn’t difficult. 

“I know so,” Boyd said.  “Because it is not as simple as that.  At the very least, you will learn another way to trap a maze, Daedalus.”  And then he winked, pulling the mask down past his face, straps at the back of his neck instead of head, to hang loose under his chin for now.  He grabbed a hardhat, covered with a thousand overlapping black fingerprints on its yellow surface, from a hook near the mine entrance.  The projections were long gone, and among the helmets left, one had a bullet hole through it.

Eames followed gamely, seeming to take Arthur’s silence as an answer, and Arthur supposed it was.  They picked up their hard hats and followed Boyd downwards, a walk into a nearly stooping space that gently inclined downward, and downward, and downward still.  The air swam with heavy dark particles that danced and swirled with their passing, and the lights set into the ceiling barely managed to pierce the black.

A few times, projections passed right through them, coming from behind and ghosting deeper into the path, there and gone into the mountain without a sound. 

“Your projections are non-corporeal?” Eames almost made it sound casual. 

“If they count as such,” Boyd said.  “We have a ways to go.”

All of it was leaving Arthur with the certainty that Eames' initial assessment-- _the most dangerous man I've ever met_ \--was not quite accurate. Not quite dire enough. Boyd was _fucked up_ , Arthur thought, possibly in ways more dangerous than even Cobb's out-of-control ghosts.  But then, Mal had always been exceedingly physical. 

Onward they went, and downward, and the air became heavy.  It became more difficult to stand up straight, as if the mountain were exerting force to keep their shoulders stooped, their heads down, crawling through her guts like the animals they were.  Seams of glistening black coal were woven through with glistening red _something_ , and yes, Boyd's symbolism was easy to decipher, but it was uncompromising as well.  Boyd's back was stooped too, and Arthur understood:  just like the jimmied lock, Boyd Crowder was not entirely in control of the dream they were walking.

It brought up shades of Dominic Cobb and that left a sour, ashy taste in Arthur's mouth.

The tunnel grew more narrow, smaller, until they were walking hunched over.  Ahead, they heard the first sound beyond their own muted footsteps: the chink of a tool on stone.

"We're close now," Boyd told them, his voice bearing the same reverence as people around a fresh grave.  It was low, quiet, so as not to disturb the dead.

They followed a curve and found the dead end of the tunnel.  There was a boy--he could only be a boy--chinking away at stone.  He seemed more solid than the other projections, and his colors were bright, almost as if he, even covered in coal dust, was the central image of a painting.  He turned, his own headlamp illuminating, somehow, his own face.  It was pale and thin but his eyes were bright, alive.  This was Boyd's projection of his love.  If Arthur had doubted it before, he didn't now.  And, he was just as sure that Boyd would never have shown them this if he knew what it really meant.

Maybe Boyd didn't like looking in mirrors too much.

"Hey there, Boyd," the projection of Raylan Givens drawled.  "Get here when you can, I guess."

“I’m here though, ain’t I, Raylan?” Boyd said.  He then stepped back, and something odd—another thing, might be more accurate—happened.

 A projection stepped out of Boyd, a younger and skinnier version, but with thicker and wilder hair and wearing a miner’s coveralls.  The young one grinned wide and bright, and he walked with a guarded, but rapid pace.  It was a shadow of his later coiled prowl. 

 That was enough.  Arthur stepped in closer to the real Boyd, ignoring the projections (for now) to jam his gun into the man’s ribs.  “We are _not_ on Somnacin.  You can’t create a projection of and _out of_ yourself _._ ”

 Boyd did not seem overly concerned: “In fact, my most common projections are myself, Arthur.  I simply manage to keep my ruminations back by controlling the environment, usually, and of course, my state of mind.  Though you may check your mixture when we are topside if you truly feel the need, but until then . . . ?” He stood very still. 

 The projections continue ignoring them, saying something about your-daddy and my-daddy and how’s-your-momma and something about squirrel hunting later.  They were facing each other, then turned together towards the deeper tunnel, standing far closer than two kids in their latter teenager years usually would.  Eames had moved close to watch them, though he’d turned to keep an eye on Arthur threatening Boyd. 

 Then the projections headed off down the tunnel, which was strung with lights that seemed too dim for industry cords and bulbs. 

 Eames stepped back to avoid being walked through, but didn’t manage it entirely. He pulled a annoyed face, then tilted his head and addressed Boyd-- “You said our mixtures.  What about yours, then?  Because Arthur is entirely right—this is not ordinary dreamshare.  Not by half.”

 “I made a concentrated dose for myself.  I am also letting go.  I can sharpen this all right up, banish my ghosts and my naiveté personified.  But: As you both implied, you wanted the truth?”  Boyd stepped away from Arthur then, and walked the same path as the projections, his gait unspooling into longer strides.  “And motivation is everything, is it not?  This here almost-memory, it is telling you all you need to know that I cannot begin to articulate.”

 “He said without a hint of irony,” Eames said, as Boyd passed him.

 Laughter echoed back through the tunnel, but Boyd did not turn around to look at them, showing his back.

  _Stay or go?_ Eames mouthed.

 Arthur frowned.  Eames nodded back, and they moved down the tunnel as well.  Arthur tucked his gun away, too, but kept the safety off.  Quick release.  Just in case..

When they caught up to the boys, they were in a place illuminated only by their headlamps.  Still the boys worked, chatting together, scraping bits of the mountain into a pallet that had appeared.  Boyd the dreamer stood watching them, his stance easy and his back to Arthur and Eames.  Arthur wanted badly to know what Eames was learning from watching all of this, but there was no time to share.  Hopefully they would find the time later.

 “We went into the mines after graduating high school,” Boyd told them.  “My daddy told me I’d come running back to him before long.  Raylan’s daddy accused us of being uppity sons of bitches, wanting to work for a living.  I might’ve gone into my daddy’s business if not for Raylan, to be honest.  He’d have hated me for it.”

 

“So you went into the army instead.”

 “After the cave in,” Boyd confirmed.

 So there would be a cave in.  Great.  “What about Raylan?”

 “Marine Corps.  He lit out before I did, without telling a soul.”

 “I think you’re lying to us,” Eames said, finally.  It made Boyd turn his head.  “Not about Raylan, but—I don’t think it has anything to do with this cave at all, does it?  Whatever you had with him, it started long before this, hm?  So why don’t you let go and show us something that will _really_ help us understand?”

 Boyd’s mouth opened, and it was like a switch had been thrown.  Arthur thought _don’t think of elephants_.  The light from Boyd’s headlamp brightened until it was blinding.  Arthur flinched away from it—and then realized he didn’t need the headlamp.  They were outside, standing on the shores of a creek, and the heat and humidity were amazing. Arthur wrenched the gas mask off and held it in one hand, while Eames did the same.  Boyd was slower.

 Arthur only had to follow Boyd’s eyes to know where the projection-memories were.  They were boys, properly boys this time, voices still cracking.  They lay on a rock in pants that were too short and frayed at the hems, shirtless and brown from the summer sun.  Their feet were bare and dirty, and fishing poles were tucked into crevices in the stones, their bobbers floating lazily.  The boys’ shoulders brushed and their eyes were closed. 

 The projection of Boyd was reciting something, a poem, not one Arthur recognized.  His voice was light and clear, even with his deep-country drawl, which was more severe than anything Arthur had heard before.  Boyd apparently made an effort to temper his accent, at least a little; but this boy had no need to do so.

 “ _When foxes eat the last gold grape,_

_And the last white antelope is killed,_

_I shall stop fighting and escape_

_Into a little house I’ll build._

_But first I’ll shrink to fairy size,_

_With a whisper no one understands,_

_Making blind moons of all your eyes,_

_And muddy roads of all your hands._

_And you may grope for me in vain_

_In hollows under the mangrove root,_

_Or where, in apple-scented rain,_

_The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.”_

“What’s that even mean?”  Raylan asked, his eyes closed and face slack with near-sleep.  It came across not as a criticism, but an invitation.

 “It means there’s no purpose to living with those who want to steal all the beauty and language from the world.  That’s what the gold grape and the white antelope are.  And the foxes and the huntsmen are the bitter old men who destroy things instead of savoring them.”

 “Like our daddies,” Raylan says, and there’s a depth of anger there Arthur has never heard in a child.

 “So there’s a breaking point, see?  A point when things can’t be helped no more, where the only viable choice is to escape, and to lay traps behind you to keep yourself safe.”

 “Escape,” Raylan said, anger pushed away and savoring the flavor of that word on his tongue.  “Hey, Boyd?  What’s your white antelope?”

 Boyd on the rock opened his eyes and looked at the profile of his only friend.  Boyd the dreamer said, “You.”  Then, “Oh.” 

Boyd on the rock didn’t answer, though—just then one of the bobbers dunked the surface of the water with a plunk.  Raylan let out a shout, and the younger Boyd cheered him on as he pulled in a fish.  When Raylan twisted and leaned over to pull in the fish’s line, they could see a clear boot print on his other side, old and mottled.

Arthur glanced—Eames had caught that, but his attention was still mostly on their dreaming Boyd.  Boyd had shoved his hands in his pockets, jeans now, and rocked on his heels for a moment.  He let out a grin, and shook his head at the boys, then looked at Eames, then Arthur, in turn.  Since they were still standing beside each other, it was a quick back and forth look.  “Learn something new every goddamned day.  Convinced yet of my veracity?”

“Yeah.” It seemed the most economical response for Arthur to pick.  Though _what the hell, Boyd_ was also a pretty good one.  What kind of desperate was he, to go to the lengths of accidental reveals to men he barely knew?

Then again, he’d researched.  Maybe it was a calculated desperation, and that, Arthur could at least understand.  Slightly.

“Then let us head back, as I am uncertain I would like to pursue this further.  You take your ways, and I will take mine?” Boyd grinned, a slightly hollow look to it.  He held a detonator in his hand.

“See you in a moment, then,” Eames agreed, and stepped back.  Arthur looked at him, shrugged, and they shot out together.

Arthur blinked awake, sat up quickly.  One of his strengths had always been a fast transition between dreaming and waking.  That’s why he was the one to pull the needle from the team when they had to run; why he was the one responsible for giving everyone oxygen when they woke in the river during the Fischer job.

 Boyd was still dreaming—they had seconds.  Maybe.  Beside him, Eames roused enough to prop up on his elbows, and they looked at each other.  “All that,” Arthur said, “And we still don’t know what he actually wants us to do.”

“But we know _why_ , though.”  Eames took Arthur’s hand, kissed the back of it.  Arthur could see the gears turning.  Eames was _intrigued_ , which meant that unless they were asked to do something unreasonable, they were taking this job.

 Boyd shifted as he came back to consciousness, straightened in his chair.  Arthur began removing his own line, and Eames did the same.  Boyd sat quite still while they did this.

 Arthur debated a moment, then stood and leaned over Boyd’s chair, reaching for his wrist.  Boyd flinched, automatically, and looked up at Arthur.  “I’ve got it,” Arthur said.  “Tell us what you want us to do here, Boyd.”

 When he spoke, Boyd’s voice was almost soft.  It reminded Arthur, unfairly, of the boy reciting the poem.  “Raylan left the Marine Corps and went into the Marshal service.  It’s perfectly in character, Arthur; he wanted to be his father’s downfall, but didn’t want to go back to Harlan.  So he became a lawman.  And he is very, very good at being a lawman.  But from what I can glean, he is not so good at being a Marshal.”

 “What does that mean?”

 “He’s a gunslinger, Arthur,” Boyd said, patiently, watching as Arthur carefully cleaned the needles and put the kit away.  The movements were almost automatic for Arthur at this point.  “I’ve got his file, just there.”  He nodded at a thick pack of papers on the desk.  Eames took it, began flipping through.

 “My,” Eames said.  “He certainly grew into himself, didn’t he?”  He showed Arthur a glossy photograph, Raylan Givens’ Marshal Service identification.  Arthur had to admit that yes—Raylan had grown into his looks, was handsome; his eyes were very intense, staring into the camera just a bit.

 “You think he made some enemies,” Arthur guessed, once again turning his attention to Boyd, who had not commented on his friends’ appearance, but was watching Eames look through the file. 

 “I know he has,” Boyd answered.  “In Central America, specifically, and among those who profit from such ventures in the good old USA.  Of which, Jerome Washington’s father was one.”

 “I thought he was a lawyer,” Arthur admitted, having not delved terribly deeply into his research yet.

 “Yes,” Boyd drawled, slow.  “And he made his business defending the indefensible.  The cartels.”

 “So how does that connect Washington to Raylan?”

“Elder and deader Washington was often the intermediary, shopping on behalf of clients for related services with coded terms.  Some less coded than others.  In my preliminary research on the late Mr. Washington’s affairs, which Jerome allowed me to do with access to his study, I found Raylan’s name on a to-do list,” Boyd said. 

Boyd rubbed the injection site, a hard press and a hold before continuing: “Jerome was somewhat invested in learning his father’s affairs, circling from overhead to get a peek, and so knew about at least some codes—for instance, I was on the short list to be offered an industry job on Raylan myself.  Why, I thought that was so ironic, I could almost taste it.” 

“From a bullet or a bitten tongue?  How much of this file was put together by him?” Eames asked.  He’d settled on a page and had been studying it for the past thirty seconds, longer than any of the others thus far.

“Half, and sporadic—the information was gathered from official records, without much attempt at digging yet.  But no connection would be findable, of course.  I am a dead man, officially, and before then my name was obscured, besides.”  Boyd rubbed his fingertips across the air, as if rubbing himself out of existence.  “The usual.” 

Arthur snorted.  The PASIV and needles taken care of, he came to stand and look over Eames’ shoulder for now and saw . . . the summary version of Givens’ official kill list.  Name, circumstances, and disciplinary action.  It was . . . a longer list than Arthur expected. 

“Do you know what the job was, or who the client was yet?” Arthur asked, watching Eames turn to—page two of the list.  All right. 

“And now we have arrived at what information dear younger and living Washington will not part with, and he will _certainly_ find it mighty suspicious that I give a good goddamn.  He wants to take up the more interesting aspects of his father’s business, and that includes client lists and demands.  I am of the sincere hope that said clients are not growing impatient with their Marshal problem,” Boyd unspooled.

“Is he treating this job, with the will and his sister, like an audition?  Or are you aiming to use it to try and that extract information from him while we run it?”  Arthur asked. 

“On the first, I believe he is, and if he is not, I will convince him—and no not with that trick you two are so famous for, just a bit of old fashioned suggestion and outright telling.  On the second, why leave it up to chance?” Boyd asked.  “Washington is not going to last long in his daddy’s world.  The apple and the tree are far separated.”

“And why not just find your old friend and militarize him?  Warn him directly?” Eames asked.  “Oh, sorry, just seemed the obvious question.”

"I am . . . reluctant to bring this to Raylan's attention.  His disdain for the criminal element was vast and uncompromising when we were boys, and there is nothing in that file you hold to indicate age has mellowed his point of view.  It is unlikely he would be amenable to accepting any help from anyone on the shadier side of things."

Arthur was willing to bet his favorite pocket square that Boyd was also unsure whether Raylan remembered him fondly, and was not in a hurry to confirm that suspicion.  "Now we know the job," Arthur said.  "Why come to us with this, Boyd?"

"I didn't come to y'all," Boyd answered.  "I came to _you_ , Arthur, because I know you."  Boyd stood, a hand on his stomach, fingers spread.  He was very lean, and sometimes when he stood, Arthur was reminded of the blade of a knife.  "How long did I spend crawling around in your head, evading, or trying to evade, the tortures you dreamed up?  And I beat your mazes in the end, did I not?  How do you imagine I began to do so, if not for _coming to know the maze-maker_?"  Boyd's eyebrow arched.

Arthur felt naked.  Back then, dreamshare had not been understood as well as it was now. The concept of safes and hidden places had been rudimentary ideas.  Arthur had no way of knowing what Boyd had learned about him.  His jaw tightened without his consent.  "What did you learn, then?"

"That you _love_ the craft of it," Boyd answered. "And the idea of using dreams to torture was as abhorrent to you as slinging coke would've been to Raylan Givens.  Because you can be sure, Arthur Cohen, that if the cartels get their hands on Raylan's mind, they're going to want him to suffer.  Or do you think that extensive list has given rise to insubstantial grudges?"

Boyd was right, of course.  Arthur had left the Agency, in part, because he recognized, through Mal and Dom, how remarkable dreamshare could be; how freeing, how creative.  He'd hated using his mind for the Agency's purposes, but he was too much of a perfectionist to do something halfway, even something he hated. So he built mazes that were gauntlets, devices of torture and death and pain, and he'd lurked in the center and waited and watched men die.  The first time Boyd found him, he'd been so startled to see another person that Boyd had managed to shoot him in the chest before Arthur even drew a gun.

So Boyd was right. "You were banking on me not wanting to see dreams used as a perversion," Arthur said.  "Okay.  But then why the 'we dug coal together' song and dance?"

"Oh, that was after I saw you and Mr. Eames here at the restaurant."  _Rest-aw-rawnt_.  "Then, I figured out you two were romantics, and would be that much more inclined to take the job. But I think we have moved to the compensation portion of the deal?"  Here, Boyd spread his hands.  "I don't need Washington's money.  My whole share, for you both to split."

"If you don't need his money, we don't want it," Eames said, his voice easy and slow.  "Arthur and I are much more interested in other forms of compensation from you, I think."

"Well now," Boyd said with a grin.  "It seems we've got some negotiatin' to do."

“Sources and information sharing.  You want our methods at your disposal, and that comes with the same price.  You are approaching this with a compromised position—whether you realize it or not, you’re asking for a personal favor, and you admit you’re using personal leverage, but trying to use professional compensation.  I want to know how you found out what you’ve found out about us, your methods, and sources.  You don’t have to give names—obviously.” Arthur said.  “And that’s my price, so to speak.  It’s really more of evening the field, though.”

 It was a gamble, to borrow one of Eames’ (pretended) favorite terms—but really, to be more accurate, it was a calculated bet.  Eames had looked intrigued, and Arthur _did_ want to know how the hell Boyd had found out so much so fast—

 But he had a feeling Eames wanted that projection method, the “letting go.”  Back in their early days, forging was a new thing that came out of the more creative government shops.  Not a lot of people knew about it, and as soon as they did, everyone tried.  Arthur tried, secretly, long hours asleep and staring at his hair, adolescent messy in the mirror every time he tried to comb it differently.

 The next job he had with a forge—Eames, in fact, who he’d met for the first time on that job—he’d not asked.  No, he heard their chemist, a very tall woman name Fatima who laughed loud and had a bad habit of punching shoulders, ask Eames what his secret was.  He’d said: “Letting go and holding on for dear life at exactly the same time, of course.  Isn’t it obvious?”  And he looked over at Arthur, who had been doing an admittedly poor job of pretending he wasn’t paying attention, and he had winked.

 Fatima—who wasn’t even looking—had laughed, and said, “Of course!”

 It was the first time Arthur wasn’t sure if he wanted to push Eames out of a window or onto a horizontal surface.  

Now, though, Eames was receiving Boyd’s expectant gaze, and smiling.  “I think you can guess.”

“I think I can, but that’s not a price,” Boyd replied.  “Though then again, I can see why you would be so coy.  You liked that odd little show I put on, though you recognize that I showed more than I preferred?”

 “Mm,” Eames made what was probably supposed to be an agreeable noise.  Arthur appreciated not being on the receiving end, but then, Boyd didn’t seem to mind the ambiguity.

 “Surely you cannot tell me that you’ve not had such things happen before,” Boyd said.  He paced a step, then back, and stilled.  “But I suppose, then, that it was not so directed.”

 They all knew it was not.  But admitting it would be—

 Yeah, Arthur hated this part.  But this was Eames’ price, and so he kept his mouth shut, and sat back in his chair.

Boyd and Eames looked at each other, and it almost seemed they were having a conversation with their eyes and microexpressions, and Arthur felt a little left out.  Finally, Boyd nodded.  "Alright.  Alright.  I will show you the technique, though I can't guarantee you can master it."

 

"I'd not expect a guarantee," Eames answered, voice still easy, but now tinged with _pleased_. 

"Now that's sorted," Arthur grinned, turned and unzipped his laptop bag.  "Let me get to work."  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Arthur did what Arthur was best at.  He delved into the lives of all three Washingtons: Jerome, sister Nanette, and deceased father Gregory.  When he teased out threads Eames or Boyd could follow, he gave them assignments, which they completed to his satisfaction, or he made them do it again.  Over the first week, the trail of Washington's money began to also turn up bodies, or the spaces where bodies should be.  Boyd worked mostly as code-breaker, pulling apart the old man's notes as he was able to steal them or copy them from his meetings with Jerome. 

It became apparent to all of them rather quickly that Gregory had chosen Nanette to inherit, while Jerome was left with a comfortable trust, and that was most likely on purpose.  Nanette possessed her father's ruthlessness and cunning--and his security detail.  Eames had to be careful, pull out all of his skills, to keep a successful tail on her.

"Right," Arthur announced one afternoon, only to realize he was alone in the flat.  He frowned, and an hour later when Boyd and Eames showed up, Arthur tried again.  "Right.  So, Nanette's the heir apparent.  That means dad intended for her to step into his shoes without a hitch--his death was expected after all.  So, you're an evil lawyer type, your daughter's going to take over, what are you going to be sure to give her?"

Boyd and Eames looked at each other, then Boyd said, "You think she's got a cipher."

"She must.  It's taken you a solid week to crack just one of his codes."  It had become apparent there were multiple codes at work on Boyd's second day.

"Actually, petal," Eames settled on the edge of his desk, looking thoughtful, which meant (hopefully) he was about to solve the whole thing.  Over Eames' shoulder, Boyd mouthed _petal?_   Arthur flipped him off.  "She had breakfast with Lana Perez this morning.  Between comparing manicures, Lana said something interesting.  My Spanish is a bit rusty, but I'm rather certain she said her husband was looking forward to meeting with her this weekend.  Anything on her calendar for Friday?"

Arthur had it.  "The probate lawyer--"  He whirled, fingers dancing, and then grinned.  "Some items of contention are still in the probate lawyer's office, until Friday morning.  The whole estate is supposed to be settled then."

 

Arthur got up, got in Eames' space, and kissed him.  With tongue, because he was there and Arthur had been in a work coma for three days.  "We're going to rob the probate lawyer's vault."

Boyd laughed, sharp and delighted.  "Robbery!  I do love to apply my skills practically."

Eames made a pleased noise, agreeing, and pressed his palm against the small of Arthur’s back.  “Actual daylight thievery never really gets old,” he agreed.

 “Now, since I’m not even sure what time it is, I’m going to pass out,” Arthur said.  He kissed Eames again, then slid away—if he didn’t, he’d stay, and while it _was_ nice being out in front of their ‘team’ —he wasn’t ready to pass out in Eames’ lap in front of someone.  He tapped Eames on the chest though: “You: Come find me when you’re done with the robbery and vault details.  File is already in the secure dropbox—just wasn’t sure we’d need it.”

 Eames grinned, quick.  “How prepared you are.”

 “I will check in with Jerome as well.  No doubt he will need managing and timing,” Boyd mused.  “I’ll manage while you two are enjoying yourselves later.  A robbery on the vault will cause all things to go a stir.  He may even show up here demanding answers.”

 “He will,” Eames agreed.  He sounded distracted, but Arthur was not going to turn around in case Eames was watching him head out of the room.  Heading back in or having Eames follow him would just be logistically unsound; Arthur really was about to fall asleep.  Somnaphilia was really not a kink of his, either.

Arthur wasn't sure how long he slept but sleep he did.  He dreamed things he didn't remember, and woke only when Eames slid into the bed behind him, tucking his big arm over Arthur's waist and pulling him in closer.  Arthur, his limbs heavy and numb from deep sleep, settled against him and dozed a while longer.  The next time he woke, Eames was mouthing at the back of his neck, and Arthur arched his back into him.  "Time'sit?"

"Nine a.m. or so on Thursday.  You slept nearly fourteen hours, darling."

"mm, 'd you do anything clever?"

"Let's talk about that in a moment, love?  I've missed you."  And then Eames kissed him with _meaning_ and Arthur was distracted from all thought for a while longer.  After, he showered in the tiny cubicle stall, and dressed, emerged feeling himself and ready to go over the robbery plans Boyd and Eames had concocted.  Boyd returned around lunch time with coffee, sandwiches, and explosives.  Arthur made a few changes in the robbery plan, argued Boyd into submission on one, and was argued into submission himself on another.  It was a good plan, and pulled off by a good crew, on an unsuspecting probate office.

It went off without a hitch.  Eames played his part (that of a not-quite rich enough to afford a _really_ good suit, just here delivering a message for his boss, oh please don't let us tell about this mess, I'll lose my job for sure--) beautifully, distracting the guard with spilled coffee and then spilled mop water while Arthur and Boyd made the heist.    They returned not to the original flat, but to another safe house at a pre-arranged time.  Arthur was on edge until the moment Eames walked in, sporting a local football team's hat on his head, jeans that made Arthur want to raise Levi Strauss from the grave to personally thank him, and a plain white tank top.  Arthur licked his lips, voracious.  Eames grinned and began to cross the room towards him, and Arthur was prepared to get _all up in that_ while they waited--

Then in loped Boyd, grinning from ear to ear.  "Well, well.  Sorry to interrupt.  What a privilege that was.  Let's see what we have, shall we?"

Eames sighed, and veered into a nearby chair, legs splayed out in front of him and arms crossed behind his head, and listen, _Eames_ was Arthur's kink, so he was invested in getting to a pausing point for at least a quickie.

He'd made photos of the cipher with a miniature camera, already had the images ready to show everyone.  "The clock is ticking.  Jerome will be on us in an hour, maybe, even if he can't find the safe house.  I'm surprised your phone isn't already blowing up."

“I prepared him for this possibility, of a sort, by implying that we were finding evidence that his dear sister was preparing to receive the inheritance and may thus be preparing to defend it.  That she may act unpredictably.  But you are certainly correct—He should be calling and demanding placating by now if his dim bulb hasn’t lit up to it being odd that we’re not where we should be.” Boyd mused.  He seemed to be rattling along the words though, barely paying attention, as he mostly was looking at the cipher.

 “Call him,” Eames said.  “Let’s break the news and see what he’ll give us—speaker phone, hm?  We’re close enough in, shouldn’t echo?”  Though Eames did look to Arthur with a raised eyebrow. 

Arthur shrugged.  “Let’s see what happens.  Maybe he’ll buy it.  If he sounds suspicious, we called it off and are scrambling after the robbery, had a tip off and it’s time to run for us.  That’s in the agreement.”  He really had to _try_ to not look at Eames’ shoulders in that tank top. 

 “Mmhmm,” Boyd agreed.  He dialed, pausing before hitting send to pop his neck, and then finished—the number sent off, tinny through the quiet of the cramped room.  Their rendezvous point, where they’d settled in to work, was almost a cave—no windows, no natural light, and very close.  It shouldn’t echo with the usual noise, or give away that it was a speaker call. 

  _Ring, ring, ring—_

 The phone picked up, and “Hello?” Jerome’s voice sounded quiet, small.  It had a faint echo.   The sound of a man holding the phone away from his mouth.  Or the sound of a man answering his phone while someone else held it, and held him.

 Arthur sat forward in his chair, and he watched Eames tilt his head to look Boyd’s direction, the phone’s direction.  For his part, Boyd sat utterly still for one full second.

 “Why, Jerome, did you change your mind on me?” he asked. 

 “What?  I don’t know.  Where are you?”  Jerome sounded unhappy.

 “I am finding out all manners of interesting things as of late.”  Boyd closed his mouth for a moment.  He waited.  “Who’s feeding you questions, hm?  They want to have a more direct chat?”

 “There’s--“ Hang up.

 “Goddamn.”  Boyd stated.

 “Not Nanette’s style.  She’d loop him in and play him, use him more successfully,” Eames stated.  “So it’s the probate lawyer, or it’s a cartel whose caught wind of Jerome’s nosing about.”

 “Cartel, who was tipped off—he gave us up fast.  Or—“ Arthur paused.  “Or they already had a line on him, or on you, Boyd.  You were on a short list—it’s possible that was disclosed to the client before the father’s death.”

 Boyd had bowed his head, and now stood in a quick motion, then stood shock still, still holding the phone in the outstretched palm of his hand.  “Jerome would have tipped out everything in his mostly empty head, and if this is a cartel, they are not interested in contact or hire anymore, or they’d have said hello.”

 Boyd’s phone started to vibrate in his palm.  “No prizes for second guesses.”

 Arthur stood and opened the door to the room facing the street, and made for the window, keeping a deep angle and staying on the shadow side of the cheap blinds.  His visibility was shit, but it looked like there was nothing unusual outside.  He could hear Eames move behind him, checking the window on the opposite corner wall—

 “Hello there,” Boyd drawled from the other room.

 “Boyd Crowder, it _has_ been a while,” came a voice, trailing out over the line, taking its time.

 Eames’ eyes went wide, and Arthur took a split second to appreciate two things: 1) That Eames was letting that register in front of Arthur, and 2) that the cadence of the voice on the phone said Boyd’s name the very way Boyd himself did.

 Because—

 “Raylan Givens.  Just the man I’ve been all but _dying_ to speak to,” Boyd said, almost too quietly to be heard. 

There was a chuckle from the line, low, slow, the noise of a man who suspects he always has the upper hand and is probably right.  “Issat right?”

 “As you said, it _has_ been a while.”

 “We ought to get together, then.   Catch up.  Especially about why you just stole evidence in a case I’ve been workin’ for nine months.”

 “Now, Raylan, you must know that is entirely coincidental.”  Arthur peeked through the door to see Boyd a little wild around the eyes, and grinning across his whole face.  “But,” Boyd continued, “I’m more than happy to unofficially meet and discuss things with you.”

 “That’d be a trick, meeting officially.  As you’re officially dead.  Got a headstone in Harlan.  I seen it, even.”

 “You—went back to Harlan?”

 “For your funeral, dumbass,” Raylan’s voice finally betrayed some emotion.

 “You’re on speaker,” Boyd said.  It was a sudden reveal and Arthur frowned at him as he raised the phone to his ear.  “My apologies, Raylan, dying was not entirely my idea.  We should meet.”  There was a pause.  “Well, if my alleged accomplices wish to meet, that is entirely their own decision.”

 Arthur and Eames exchanged a look.  A long one.  Then, finally, Arthur said, “Unofficially.  And he needs to understand we were trying to protect him, that was the goal.”

 Boyd dutifully repeated their conditions.  They couldn’t hear Raylan’s response, and would have to take Boyd’s affirmation on faith.  “Thirty minutes, then,” Boyd said, and gave Raylan the address of the fucking safe house.

 Arthur was going to kill him.

 Arthur was also not surprised when there was a knock on the door in _ten minutes_ , not thirty, because only a fool would give the accurate time, and Raylan Givens, thorn in the cartels’ collective side, was no fool.

By then Eames had (sadly) found a real shirt and taken up watch at the windows, while Arthur had investigated and started to prepare two additional contingency plans for their own exit from the city (entirely separate from any involving Boyd).  Boyd had stared at the cipher in a way that almost looked productive, except for the way he kept glancing at his pocketwatch.

 Even Arthur, who admitted to enjoying mixing unusual neutral patterns and wide ties with narrow vests, thought it was a little ridiculous that Boyd sometimes carried a pocketwatch.  Especially if it was with jeans.

 Eames hadn’t said anything before the knock, so Arthur assumed that was good news.  Still, it seemed like a better idea to let Boyd answer, and Arthur locked his phone screen and joined Eames in the windowed room to listen, both of them staying just out of sight and casting carefully managed shadows.  The entrance way was through their other windowless and cramped room, and it wouldn’t be difficult to observe from there. 

 

Unfortunately, it was the most obvious place to listen from, so Arthur pulled them to the opposite side of the doorway, which was much more narrow, and required them to stand much closer. What a tragedy.

 The sound of the door unlocking, opening—

 “Raylan Givens,” Boyd spaced out. “Look at you, tall and thin like a honed blade.  And with a _hat._ “

 Dry laughter, almost too quiet to carry.  “Boyd Crowder, you asshole.  How many you got in here?”  And then there were quiet footsteps, coming in. “Or you know what, don’t even bother answering.  I know there were two fellers on your team.  Washington had some babbling about what you were stealing, and what you weren’t.  He had no idea you were taking him for a ride.”

 The sound of the door closing, and the footsteps stopping just in the next room.  Door locking.  “Actually, he hired me, and I happened to find a brand new opportunity just begging to be picked up and examined,” Boyd said, still standing by the door, from the sound of his voice carrying.

 “Come on out now,” Raylan said, not answering, and tapping the wall.  Their wall, but--“Don’t make me come looking.  And do yourselves a favor and have empty hands when you do.”

 There were only so many places to hide.  Eames shrugged, and Arthur shrugged back.  They both remembered the kill list, and that every single man and woman had been armed.  And—this was not a stand off.  What it was, though, Arthur couldn’t really say.

 Eames cleared his throat.  “Well since you asked so politely.”

 Arthur stepped out first though, not bothering to hide his wariness, because unlike Eames _and_ Boyd, he’d not laid eyes on Givens yet.  Of course he was armed.  And he wore his gun on his hip and wore some massive cowboy hat like fucking Wyatt Earp.  It should look ridiculous, somehow did not, and Arthur wondered what his life had turned into where cowboy boots, hats, and pocketwatchs somehow seemed to match.

 “Two dead men and a fancy chair,” Givens said, stepping back to get a line of sight on all of them.  “Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

 Boyd, all his attention pointed right at Givens, opened his mouth--

 Arthur knew if he left this up to Boyd, or even Eames, they’d be doing this for hours.  And it was entirely possible Givens had backup on the way, or already surrounding the building while he distracted them. 

 So: Arthur spoke first--“Washington senior was shopping our industry to put a specialized job out on you.  It would have resulted in your interrogation, torture, and likely murder.  Boyd found this out when Jerome Washington ran across his name and the knowledge of our industry and decided to make use of it in a very ridiculous fashion, which Boyd then used to his advantage. The job today was for that end.  It’s likely someone sold you out as the target.”

 That last item, of course, they had _not_ discussed.  But Arthur remembered the list Givens’ name had appeared on in Boyd’s subconscious: _Dead by the hand of our dear Uncle Sam._

“Well goddamn, just don’t spill it all right out there,” Boyd said after a pause, at least looking a little taken aback.  _Good._

 Givens was just frowning, looking at a sort of middle space between them, rotating his head a little to make sure everyone was in sight.  His brow was slightly furrowed, and as if he were examining his words for their hook.

 Arthur snorted. “I didn’t want to wait for the punchline.”

 “As much as I appreciate the attempt at straightforwardness, what the hell is your industry?” Givens ran his fingers along the brim of his wide hat.  His non-gun hand’s fingers.  His eyes glittered a little, and he did not seem happy to have to ask that question.

 “Did you look us up, Raylan?”  Boyd asked.

 “I found you--Cohen,” Givens nodded at Arthur, “I already had started facial recognition with my tech contact.  The one who’s assigned to the surveillance rig on the lawyer?  Uh-huh.”

  _Shit,_ Arthur thought.  Because: “Last I checked, I wasn’t dead.  I was discharged.  And in the States, under my actual name, last month.  Which means it’s been changed since, which means it’s changed during this job.”

 “While that smells like a cover up, you understand that taking your word is a dubious prospect at best for me,” Givens said.  “So again, what the hell is your so-called industry?”

 “Dreamshare, of course.  Surely you’ve heard of it?” Eames said.  He sounded smooth and sure that he would not be believed.

 “Would you two shut your damn mouths?” Boyd groused.  Outright _groused_.  ‘Trying to get the disbelief out of the way first will not work.  Showing will not work because he’s not going down.  And if anyone knows—no one knows you’re here, do they?”

 “Don’t be—oh wait, you _are_ the asshole who let the world think you were dead,” Givens said, forcing his mild tone a little too hard.  “Why no, of course no one knows I came to the thieves’ safe house looking to ask, pretty please, give me my evidence.  Though I expect if I end up a corpse, there will be hell to pay, and I reckon I will take at least two of you out with me.”

 “Did you drive or bring your cell phone?” Arthur asked, because _he_ didn’t care about being an asshole as long as he was able to keep breathing.

 Givens looked like he was reconsidering leaving his gun holstered, if only for dramatic effect. “I got my phone, but what the hell?”

 “Goddammit.”  Said everyone else.  Literally.

 “You may have just gotten yourself burned, Raylan,” Boyd said.  “But then, as previously alluded, you might’ve been on that track already.  Or worse.”

 “And I still don’t know what—“ Raylan started.  A knock sounded at the door, and in a blink, he had his pistol in his hand and his mouth was shut. 

The draw had been so quick and smooth, Arthur hadn’t even been able to track it.  Boyd, still near the door, looked from Raylan to the knob, a question in his eyes.  Raylan shook his head.  Boyd nodded, “Who’s there?” he asked, and his voice had lost a great deal of its accent when he did.

 “Message for Givens,” said a voice on the other side, American, woman.  “I’m a messenger.  I’m unarmed.  They told me to say that.”

 Raylan did not put his pistol away, but he did nod at the knob this time.  Arthur eased to the side to be less of an obvious target, and didn’t need to nudge Eames with him.  When Boyd opened the door, it was quick, and he stayed behind it, himself.

 The woman was thin, blonde, and had her hands in the air.  One hand had an cell phone in it.  She wiggled it.  “This is the message.  You’re supposed to wait for the call.”

 “They told you how to find me?”

 “Finding’s my job,” she said with a smile.  “I’ve been on your tail for weeks.  They just activated me.”

 “Take the phone from her, fancy chair,” Raylan ordered.  Eames eased around Arthur and moved to do so, and Raylan kept his gun on the woman.  She didn’t seem too bothered by this turn of events, like it wasn’t the first time she’d delivered a message.  “Who’s they?”

 She gave him a small, pitying look.  “You know that’s not how this works.  But I’m Beatrix.  If you need a message delivered, you’ll be able to find me.”

 That said, she took two steps back, still keeping her hands up, and turned to walk away.  Boyd closed the door and locked it again.

 “It’s just a phone,” Eames said.  “Burner.”  It rang in his hand. 

Raylan crossed the room and took it, pistol now lowered but not holstered.  He answered and held it to his ear.  Whatever he heard made his face go tight and angry.  His kill list was about to get longer.  Raylan dropped the phone on the floor.

 “Right,” he said.  “Fine.”  
  
“Raylan?”  Boyd said it, quiet and his own expression serious.   

“He gave my name and face to the cartels I’ve been fucking with,” Raylan said.  “And apparently I’m wanted on corruption charges.”

“Bullshit,” Boyd immediately said.

“We need to confirm,” was Arthur’s immediate answer.  “Or you do, before you do anything.”

 Raylan had lowered his face, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes.  “Can you do that?  Confirm all this shit?”

 “Yes,” Arthur answered.  “But not here.  And give me your phone, too.  Eames, what else might have a bug in it?”

 “Jacket, badge,” Eames said.  “Just leave them all here.”

 In the end, Arthur and Eames went to scrub the space while Raylan put his phone down, dropped his badge on the table, and left the jacket.  He kept the hat on, and his gun.  Boyd had already bricked the phone by the time they were through with the scrub.  Arthur handed Boyd an address, in another city. 

 “Two days,” he said.  “I’ll have answers for you by then.”

 “Then we shall meet in two days,” Boyd replied.  “Arthur, Eames—I’m grateful, though things didn’t work out as I’d hoped.”

 “They rarely do, do they?” Eames asked.  Raylan was mute, face still so angry that Arthur wanted to be well clear of him when he finally let it go.  With that in mind, he tugged Eames’ sleeve, and they headed for the door, and the nondescript car hidden at a nearby garage.

 In the car, Arthur drove, Eames made sure their guns were loaded.  Once on the road, Eames looked at Arthur and just said, “Well, _fuck_ , darling.”

 “Yeah,” Arthur said.  “No fucking kidding.”

 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 Left alone with Raylan, Boyd found himself tongue-tied.  There were thousands of things he wanted to say upon seeing his old friend again; thousands more he’d thought of saying.  Now, in the moment, in the circumstances, they all seemed imperfect, and so he kept them to himself.  The time would come, as would the words; they always did, even if he had to borrow someone else’s.

 Raylan’s star glittered like an offering on the little dusty table.  “You ought to leave your hat,” Boyd said.

 “I ain’t leaving my hat,” was Raylan’s answer.  But he raised a hand and took it off.  “I will, however, carry it.”

 Bereft of hat, Boyd could see the widow’s peak his hair had grown into, the wild dark brown that tumbled a bit over his brows.  Raylan’s warm, sharp eyes met Boyd’s, and Boyd thought, again, _Oh_. 

 He very nearly blurted, _You’re my white antelope_.  Horrifying.  Instead, Boyd told him the rough direction they’d be going—into a nearby building with an adjoining wall, down into their parking garage and the subway from there.  He had a car stashed, and they could find a safe place to hole up for the two days Arthur had requested.  Raylan nodded. “Lead the way,” he said.

 Raylan didn’t speak again until they were in the parking garage, making their way to the subway.  He said, “I could use a drink.”

 “My friend,” Boyd told him, “I think we shall both of us have several.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is "Escape" by Elinor Wylie.


End file.
